Earthquake

I sober. “Maybe if I’d found a way your family wouldn’t have died,” I whisper, needing to get that out. To let him know he can talk about it with me. That, having lost my own parents, I’m especially suited to understand.

But he only shrugs. “Maybe. But that doesn’t matter anymore. You’re my family now.”

My eyebrows scrunch together as I stare at him and try to keep the horror out of my eyes as he—likely unknowingly—repeats the phrase the Reduciate woman used. His little siblings, his mother, his father; they just don’t matter anymore? I remember very distinctly the months of feeling as though part of my physical body had been cut away when my parents died. How can he act like I could replace his family?

Maybe he’s in denial. I can be patient. Especially with so much going on with us. Later. It takes time—I know that.

He stares off into space, and I take a moment to love the sight of him, the overhead lights reflecting off his tousled golden hair. Between it and his tan skin he looks just like a god should.

“We have to go soon, don’t we?” His voice is full of mourning.

“Yeah.” I choke out that tiny word.

“Meet Daniel. Find out what he wants with us.”

“From us.”

“No one ever lets us just be happy,” he says, turning to look at me again with those eyes that paralyze me with wanting. “At least we’ll get to see each other afterward.” He casts his eyes downward, and I understand what he’s not saying—that this time, it won’t be like the night the hooded horsemen came for us two hundred years ago. I nod and he rolls over onto his stomach. “Hungry?”

“Starving,” I admit. “We never did get food last night.”

“Probably because of that power outage. Here.” He snaps his fingers and a wooden breakfast tray appears on the bed between us with a hot French press full of coffee, croissants, steaming eggs perfectly over easy, crispy bacon, and two glasses of cold orange juice.

That’s right. We have powers.

And unlike me, he remembered that little fact.

But … have we actually resurged? I don’t know exactly what that means—what it requires. Just that it makes our creations permanent and gives us seven more reincarnations. I’m about to say something when I catch sight of the melted nub of candle on the bedside table.

Logan created that last night. It’s still here. Does that mean that we’ve done it, that the clock on our lifetimes has been reset?

A warmth of happiness and accomplishment starts to fill my chest, when I remember Sammi wondering if I was too damaged to resurge. Not Logan, me. All the permanence of Logan’s candle means is that he’s safe. And although that fact makes me gloriously happy, I can’t help but fear I’ve saved him only to damn him to seven lifetimes without me.

“Think that’s enough?” Logan asks, looking down at the heaping tray. “Do you want to add anything?”

I force a smile when what I really feel is a rush of fear. “It looks great,” I say. And no, I most certainly do not want to add anything. If it disappears—if I’m not good enough—I … I don’t want him to know.

As Logan is browsing the tray, I clench my fist, peer at my bedside table—just outside of Logan’s line of sight—and create the first thing I think of.

Now I just have to wait five minutes.

Trying to hide my nerves, I dig into a croissant, only now remembering how famished I am. I was a little … distracted before. As I chew, it occurs to me that, at least as long as I’m with Logan, I’m never going to have to worry about not getting enough to eat again. I’ll never wonder if I’m going to pass out before Benson can get me food.

I swallow that thought away along with the bread that suddenly feels dry and wash both down with a long sip of searing-hot coffee.

The pile of food is completely gone in five minutes. Logan pats his bare stomach. “I’m stuffed.”

“You’re a good cook,” I say with a laugh.

“It’s so weird that I could just forget that I literally can have anything I want with a simple thought,” Logan says, and I have to struggle to pay attention. “But boy am I glad I remembered! Serious perks.” He stands, stretching, and all my worries flee at the sight of his bare skin spread out before me with such casual confidence. I don’t think he had that yesterday.

I like it.

“I’m going to go shower,” he says with utter nonchalance. Then he raises one eyebrow. “Join me?”

“Soon as I’m done,” I say, gesturing to the nearly finished croissant in my hand. But it’s just an excuse. As soon as I hear the water turn on, I toss the croissant onto the tray, close my eyes, count to three, and turn and look at the bedside table.

At a tube of ChapStick.

I pick up the tube and rub it with my thumb, then sink back down onto the bed. My hands tremble so badly I can barely keep a hold of the ChapStick.

“I did it,” I whisper.

I’m not broken. I created something permanent.

A glow of victory accompanies that thought.

But how am I supposed to feel about the fact that, even after spending the night with Logan, the first thing I thought to make was a memento of Benson?

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It’s strange to suddenly start making everything I need. Soap, towels, clothing, hairbrush. I just think of it, and it appears. And even though I’ve known I could do this for a couple weeks now, my creations never felt exactly real before because I knew they would only disappear a few minutes later.

Now? Everything is permanent. There are consequences. I mean, advantages too, obviously. But let’s just say I’ve spent a lot of this morning thinking about the butterfly effect.

Honestly, I still don’t like using my powers, but I’ve had to sort of come to terms with it. It’s who I am. What I am.

Logan, meanwhile, doesn’t have any of my hang-ups. The candle last night and breakfast this morning were just the start of his creations. Since then, he’s made a garbage can, a shoe rack, an entirely new wall to set the kitchenette off from the rest of the room, and a full set of some kind of expensive soap plus cologne and deodorant. And he’s done so completely casually. Like it’s his right and he’s been missing out on it for the last eighteen years. Like he has to make up for lost time.

“So, do you think we’re supposed to simply wait here until they come fetch us?” Logan asks.

Fetch? He speaks just a little differently now. I think it’s a hybrid of modern Logan and his past selves. Rather like his clothes. Which he also made. He’s wearing cargo pants and a T-shirt, but those are definitely Quinn’s comfy riding boots peeping out from beneath, and he just pulled out a gold pocket watch to check the time.

And his hair is longer. Not as long as when he was Quinn, but not the short—probably mother-mandated—cut he was sporting before. He has taken to his abilities so easily. Easier than I did.

Easier than I do.

I’m still wearing my jeans from yesterday. New underwear was a must, and my shirt was seriously sweaty, so I replaced that too, but it just feels weird.

Elizabeth—my therapist in Portsmouth—did say my memory process would be more difficult. I was worried it would be painful for Logan too, but it didn’t seem to be at all. Watching him awaken was incredible! I could see the changes—could see in his eyes how much information was suddenly inside his brain! But it didn’t hurt him. I still cringe at the memory of how agonizing my own awakening was.

I guess that’s not the only difference though. Maybe getting used to my powers is one of the side effects. Thinking of how to use them.

Like those doctors. Seriously, wow.

“Yeah, I guess we have to wait,” I finally answer, folding my arms over my chest like I’m cold. “I don’t think I have to tell you that I don’t like being here.”

“I know,” Logan says softly. “But it’s better than being in Reduciata custody.”